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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27708226">Sympathy and Sickness</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiserkorresponds/pseuds/Kaiserkorresponds'>Kaiserkorresponds</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Caretaking, Coughing, Flu, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Gets a Hug, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist has Asthma, Martin Blackwood's Poetry, Pining Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Protective Martin Blackwood, Sick Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sickfic, The Magnus Archives Season 1, Whump</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:48:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,163</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27708226</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiserkorresponds/pseuds/Kaiserkorresponds</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon's expression deepened into bleary confusion. "But you all had this cold. And I don't believe anyone else visited a clinic for it." </p><p>Martin felt the tide of sympathy wash back into the harbors of disbelief. </p><p>"Jon, none of us had a near 40 degree fever." </p><p>-- </p><p>Based on the prompt of Jon complaining about illness without realizing the actual severity of it ! And then it got out of hand from there, featuring Martin ! Now with a second chapter after the clinic visit !!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>298</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Anyway, I suppose that's enough complaining. I apologize for taking up your time, Martin. I'll allow you to get back to work now." </p><p>Martin felt his jaw drop open in complete disbelief, staring at the awkward expression on Jon's face, and attempting to process everything that he had just said. </p><p>Everything being the very concerning information that Jon was running an extraordinarily high fever, and had been getting progressively more ill with what sounded like a horrible list of symptoms for well over a week now, all said in exact the same way as if they were out of office ink and not that he was near burning up from an untreated case of the flu. </p><p>"Jon, that doesn't. That isn't– That doesn't sound good. Maybe you should go see a doctor?" He finally managed to say, having to force the words out from behind the absolute wall of disbelief that Jon, his sharp, intelligent boss, could be so dense as to not realize when he was actually seriously ill. </p><p>Jon frowned in response, his watery eyes narrowing even further than where they were already squinted against the lights, and his flushed cheeks creasing. </p><p>"It's just a cold, Martin. I really don't think there's a need for that. I apologize if I gave you the wrong impression with the complaining, but it really is inconsequential."</p><p>Martin's brain stuttered out a few incomprehensible syllables about obliviousness, and research, and the irony of an Archivist with a lack of basic observational skills, before managing to form actual words. </p><p>"Jon, that's not a cold." He finally said, the sudden realization that Jon's survival instincts were slim to none near hitting him in the face. "You'd be lucky if it isn't the flu."</p><p>"I appreciate the concern, however–" </p><p>"It's not just concern." Martin said, not even letting him finish the sentence.  "Well, I mean, I am concerned. But for a reason, Jon. That's bad. All of that is really, really bad."</p><p>Jon stared blankly back, not even protesting the interruption for once, and simply staring unguardedly.   </p><p>And the expression on his face could have broken anyone's heart. </p><p>With the red, swollen rims around his eyes, and deep flush across his cheeks he looked so much younger than his actual age, and the feverish, watery tears clinging to his lashes only added to the effect, making it look almost as if he had been crying. </p><p>And if that didn't yank on Martin's heartstrings enough, the sight of his curls flattened down with damp sweat made it look as if he were a wet cat, caught in the rain begging for scraps, without shelter, or warmth, or even just a kind hand to stroke it. </p><p>And the look on his face. The unmasked look of utter exhaustion, and actual emotion instead of his typical front of irritation, could have melted a heart far harder than Martin's. </p><p>All combined with the, honestly hellish, symptoms he had described suffering from, Martin was halfway tempted just to bundle him up and take him straight to the A&amp;E himself. </p><p>"Jon," Martin started, not quite sure where to go. "You need– you need to see someone about all that, especially before it gets any worse." </p><p>Jon's expression deepened into bleary confusion. "But you all had this cold. And I don't believe anyone else visited a clinic for it." </p><p>Martin felt the tide of sympathy wash back into the harbors of disbelief. </p><p>"Jon, none of us had a near 40 degree fever." </p><p>"I was wearing a cardigan the last time I checked my temperature. It probably threw off the reading a bit." </p><p>"That isn't– that doesn't." </p><p>Martin paused, and inhaled a slow, deliberate breath. Not for the sake of irritation, but for the sake of still not finding the depths of Jon's total obliviousness surrounding basic self care yet. </p><p>"Please– please, promise me that you'll go see a doctor soon. Even if it's just at the walk-in clinic, or just a quick check with your GP, okay?" </p><p>Jon looked, if possible, more perplexed under the fever flush. "You really think I should see someone?" </p><p>"Yes, Jon." Martin burst out. </p><p>Taking another, deliberate, breath, he said slower. "I know you have trouble with–" He paused for a word that wasn't 'basic life tasks outside of work', "Self care. But this isn't just a cold anymore, and truthfully it would make me feel better if you were going to see a doctor." </p><p>"I might need a stronger fever reducer." Jon mumbled, almost to himself. </p><p>Martin nodded, as if that wasn't just the absolute bare minimum at this point. </p><p>"Please promise you will see someone, alright? The clinic, your doctor, honestly the A&amp;E at this point, just someone."</p><p>Jon frowned deeper, and under the angry red flush which seemed to be getting worse by the minute, Martin could see the utter lack of comprehension in his glassy, feverish eyes. </p><p>"Or I could just take you tonight?" </p><p>Martin said it so suddenly, that the offer took even himself by surprise. But as the idea solidified even a bit, it made more and more sense. </p><p>"It's far past actual work hours at this point, and everyone else has already gone home. It's time that you'd be going home anyway too, so there isn't any time you'd be missing, and in all honesty, I'm not sure if you should be going home alone right now." </p><p>Jon just stared at him again with that rapidly hazing over gaze. "Now?"</p><p>Martin nodded, cementing the snap decision more and more as he thought about it. </p><p>"Yes, now. There's a clinic just a few blocks down. They take walk-ins all 24 hours, and it's still a weekday. And truthfully I'm not really sure I could sleep tonight knowing that you're going home for the weekend while you're this ill without at least some medicine, if not someone to take care of you." </p><p>A faint bit of his customary irritation and stubbornness finally rose up behind Jon's eyes at the idea of being unable to care for himself, but it only lasted a few seconds before was crushed almost instantly by what looked to be complete and utter exhaustion and by the massive fever he clearly had. </p><p>"Alright."</p><p>"Alright?" Martin repeated, not fully processing the answer. </p><p>"Alright, I'll go to the clinic." Jon mumbled. </p><p>"Right, yes. Of course." Martin said, parsing through all of the sudden logistic changes of him actually agreeing, and canceling his nightly plan of a microwave dinner and old reruns by himself. </p><p>As if it actually was important to spend another night alone at his flat, while Jon stood, burning up and stifling what sounded like a horribly painful coughing jag, right in front of him.  </p><p>"We can walk there, if you're able to?" He asked, mentally planning the route. "It's only a few blocks, and then they can look you over, and I promise you'll feel so much better once you've seen a doctor and you're not so feverish."</p><p>Jon nodded, beginning to look almost painfully miserable as the conversation went on, his professional persona finally fully crumbling at the idea of not trudging through any more days of what Martin would consider to be an absolutely horrible case of the flu. Or maybe bronchitis, Martin winced, as he let out another crackling, half choked back cough. </p><p>"It'll help?" He asked. "I won't feel– feel as ill?" </p><p>Martin felt a flicker of not just concern, but genuine empathy rise up in his chest at the raspy, stuffed up tone to his voice and the exhausted circles under his eyes that were so, so deep. </p><p>"Yes, of course, Jon. You're going to feel much better." </p><p>Jon nodded again, and allowed Martin to steer him towards the door, even allowing him to carefully hold under one of his tiny shoulders as they made their way out of the archives. And, not that Martin would ever tell a soul, he leaned just the tiniest bit into the touch, with his fever hot skin pressed against Martin's hand. </p><p>"You're going to feel so much better, Jon. Just let me help you, and I promise you'll feel much less ill really soon." He said softly as he carefully led Jon up the stairs and towards the flashing sign for the clinic. </p><p>"You're going to feel better soon."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The clinic visit !!!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Martin?" </p><p>Martin glanced up from his phone, quickly hitting the close button on the article about modernism in poetry he had been reading, and rose from the chair to face Jon where he was exiting, well more like stumbling, out of the exam room.</p><p>"Jon, what did they say, are you–" Martin broke off at the pained, bleary expression on his face. "Jon? Is everything okay?" </p><p>Jon's glassy eyes rose to meet his and the lack of sharpness in his gaze should have been comforting. Instead it just stoked the tiny, well huge really, spark of worry that had been lingering in Martin's chest since they had arrived at the clinic.</p><p>Seeing Jon so sick in the archives had been shocking, and had drawn out an overwhelming instinct to just shake him, and keep shaking him until he gained some sense and finally realized how sick he actually was. </p><p>Now, after hours of waiting in the clinic's sterile waiting room, it just felt sad. Watching him stare blearily under the fluorescent lights, the fever flush still high and angry on his cheeks and his shoulders trembling faintly in the chilly air, all Martin could feel was the urge to wrap him in a quilt and tuck him into a bed with a dose of paracetamol, and a cup of his favorite chamomile tea.</p><p>"Jon?" He asked again. "Are you okay?" </p><p>Jon blinked and rubbed a hand over his reddened eyes, brushing aside a few strands of damp curls in the process. </p><p>"They said– said I've got a bad case of the– the flu and bronchitis. Secondary– I think, and that the test for the sinus infection hadn't– hasn't come back, but they think it'll be positive." </p><p>"Oh, Jon." Martin felt his own chest ache in sympathy, all thoughts of shaking some sense into him immediately off the table. "Did they give you a prescription for anything?" </p><p>Jon coughed again, sounding crackly and hoarse and painfully strained, even worse than it had when Martin had led him down the street to the clinic hours ago. </p><p>"Antibiotics, and the flu medication. And I think maybe– a stronger inhaler?" He said, the last part of the sentence tilted up so high it almost sounded like a question. "They said it would be ready at the– the chemists tomorrow."</p><p>"Oh, Jon you must feel terrible." Martin said, feeling the clench of empathy deep in his own chest raise up to a level that, for anyone else who wasn't his stubborn, feisty boss, would have been pity. "Did they say anything else?" </p><p>Jon's eyes flicked down towards the floor, and he mumbled a few inaudible syllables. </p><p>"I couldn't quite hear that, Jon." Martin said as gently as he could, making sure to stay far out of the range of coddling. </p><p>"They said I shouldn't– shouldn't go home alone. Might need to go to the A&amp;E if it gets worse and I could be too ill to get there myself." Jon mumbled, his eyes still trained on the floor. "Don't have anyone though." </p><p>Those words, raspy and mumbled, and altogether so sad could have broken Martin's heart in two, if it hasn't already been broken by Jon many times over throughout the night already.  </p><p>"Did they want to keep you overnight then?" Martin asked. </p><p>Jon's eyes rose back up to meet his. "They don't have a bed– they said to just call someone."</p><p>Those words, even more than heartbreaking the last, made Martin want to fight whoever had told him that, and let them feel the sting of not knowing if anyone would take care of you. Nevermind knowing that no one would. Especially with how ill Jon looked, feverish and shaking, and still fighting back the watery tears at the edges of his lashes from his irritated eyes. </p><p>"You don't have anyone to call?" Martin tried to keep his voice steady, and free from pity, or the anger that was simmering at Jon being tossed to the wolves like that. </p><p>He wasn't as successful as he'd wished as Jon's gaze narrowed into something sharp. </p><p>"No." He said roughly. "But I don't require anyone."</p><p>"Jon–" Martin floundered a bit as the prickly side of Jon showed through, even through the still scarily high fever, and the obvious pain he was in. "If– if they say that you should have someone, then you really should call them. I promise they won't be angry with you." </p><p>Jon's voice dropped back into the low, crackly register, and he said so softly that Martin almost couldn't catch it, "I said, I don't– don't have anyone. At all." </p><p>The admittance near shattered Martin's heart, and he couldn't stop the soft noise he let out. </p><p>"No one?" He asked, before realizing that he was unintentionally digging the blade in further as Jon's face creased and he wrapped his tiny arms around himself. </p><p>"No." </p><p>There was an awkward silence for a handful of seconds as Jon breathed in and out raspily, and Martin fought to ignore the sudden, horrible implications of him having no one. </p><p>"I– I could take care of you tonight?" </p><p>For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, or really more like less than four, he was volunteering to take care of his boss. His boss that for all intents and purposes acted as if he detested him, and his boss that Martin was currently watching cough, wet, and wheezing, into his sleeve while he nearly was nearly boiling with fever. </p><p>"What?" </p><p>Jon jerked his head up from where he had been coughing, his eyes wide and shocked. </p><p>"I could– I could take care of you. Just make sure that you can breathe okay, and that you aren't too– too feverish." Martin said haltingly, scarcely holding out the hope that Jon wouldn't just outright leave, dizzy as he looked, at the offer. </p><p>Instead, he seemed to be stunned. And if anything rooted in place, with his glassy eyes still blown far wider than Martin had ever seen, and even his feverish trembling stopped for just a second. </p><p>"You don't– that's not necessary Martin." He said stiffly. </p><p>Martin let out just the tiniest bit of the breath he'd been holding that he didn't storm off and brush off the entire offer, even if he hadn't accepted it yet.  </p><p>"Didn't the doctor say that you should have someone though, just to be safe?" </p><p>"Yes– but it's not– I don't need that." </p><p>"But what if you suddenly feel worse in the night? Or if you fall in your flat and can't get to your phone to call for help? Would you be alright then?" </p><p>"Well– I–" Jon stuttered. "I can't ask you to do that, Martin." </p><p>"I'm offering." Martin said, being very careful to be soft, but still stay isitsitent, not pushing, but also not allowing Jon to play roulette with his health. Not when he was seriously ill on top of his already horrid self care habits. </p><p>"And didn't they say that you have several prescriptions at the chemist? You'll need someone to pick them up. You really can't get on the Tube in this shape, especially during rush hour tomorrow when everyone'll be racing to get on the train." </p><p>Jon shifted his weight in an awkward rocking motion, one that seemed to speak more towards vertigo than indecision, despite it clearly being a product of both. </p><p>"I–" He started. "I can't– it's not–" </p><p>He broke off, and Martin could see the damp sweat that was dripping down his temples at the effort of standing so long, and his internal temperature burning so high. </p><p>"It's just for one night." Martin said softly. "Just so that you're not ill all by yourself. It would make me feel better, knowing that you aren't about to have a bad asthma attack on your own, or get delirious if your fever gets a bit higher." </p><p>Jon's bloodshot eyes flicked downwards towards the tile floor and then back up, and he nodded just the smallest bit.</p><p>"Okay." He said, and the two syllables sounded exhausted. Truthfully not just but exhausted, but ill, and strained, and so, so miserable, far past the limits of his typical thorny barriers. </p><p>"Okay." Martin repeated and nodded softly, ignoring the fresh clenching of his heart at the unexpected vulnerability in favor of prepping for the rest of the night. "You can come to my place, and I'll set up a cot, okay? You can have a good night's rest, and I'll pick up your medicine in the morning once rush hour has died down a bit, and I can make sure overnight that you're not getting too feverish and that you can breathe alright." </p><p>Jon nodded again, near sagging on his feet, and for the second time he allowed Martin to carefully lead him outside, and towards comfort where Martin resolved would make sure he would be taken care of, and finally get a true rest to recover and finally feel, even just a bit, better.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I don't typically do additional chapters, but this requested a lot and I was inspired !!!!! Plz leave me a comment/kudos if you enjoyed or would like to see more sickfic !!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>At Martin's apartment !!!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"We're nearly there. It's just right through– yeah right through here." Martin said softly, carefully leading Jon up the last few steps of the stairs that lead up to the door of his tiny flat. </p><p>"That door, okay? We're almost there, it's the one on the left– the one with the gray paint." </p><p>Jon nodded shakily, and let out another one of those terrible, wrenching coughs that had him leaning even further on Martin. </p><p>And had Martin mentally cursing the honestly horrible amount of rickety stairs that led up to his flat. And the walk from the clinic in the chilly, night air that had clearly done no favors for his already miserable illness. And for the measure of it, the horrible virus that had clearly drained Jon of absolutely all of his strength, and left him looking so exhausted. </p><p>"We're almost there, okay?" Martin encouraged him just the last few steps, swinging open the door to the apartment with the hand not supporting Jon's tiny frame. </p><p>Jon nodded again, coughing with another wet, raspy sound and near drooping in place as he stood shakily in the doorway. </p><p>"It's okay." Martin said gently, carefully shutting the door behind them with a click. "You can go ahead and lay down right over there." </p><p>He gestured to the tiny living space and the worn out furniture that, despite being old, was at least comfortable, especially after a long day. </p><p>"There's a sofa, and some throws, and I think maybe some pillows. You're free to use whichever one, or ones you want okay?" </p><p>Jon's eyes rose to meet his, glassy and bleary with fever in the dim light, and he nodded again. </p><p>"Thank you." He rasped. </p><p>"It's– it's no trouble." Martin said, carefully letting go of Jon's tiny shoulder to allow him to stagger the few steps to the sofa. </p><p>He collapsed onto it almost immediately, all of his professional decorum crumbling and a massive wave of relief washing over his face. The angry flush that was painted across his cheekbones seemed to calm, even if it was just the tiniest bit, and few of the tension lines that almost always pinched his face smoothed out around his eyes as he let out a faint, almost involuntarily sounding sigh.  </p><p>And maybe Martin was imagining it, but his breathing even sounded a bit less strained and wheezy as he finally laid back. </p><p>"That's–" Martin started to say better, then thought better of it at Jon's still faintly tense shoulders. </p><p>"I'll just go get some blankets, okay?" The sofa pulls out into a cot, but it'll still be a bit chilly without a few sheets."</p><p>He waited for Jon's bleary nod, before bustling over to the closet and digging through his own stack of truthfully rather cheap sheets. </p><p>There were only a few pairs really, mainly just the spare set for his own mattress and cotton ones that he had bought on impulse, envisioning that it would be for any potential guests, but as he glanced back at Jon he couldn't help but pull out the bundle of his own spares. The fabric was softer, less scratchy and Jon looked as if he could use every ounce of comfort he could get, with the still strained, wet sound to his breathing, even with laying down, and that angry, red flush on his cheeks that just didn't want to seem to fade.  </p><p>Martin frowned, and carefully pulled the sheets out, tucking them under one arm for the few steps back to the main living area. </p><p>"Alright, Jon. I've got some sheets for you, and I can make up the sofa, it's not really a real bed, but it's, well, soft and its comfy enough for one night and–" </p><p>He cut off rambling at the sight of Jon, who in the few seconds he'd been turned, appeared to have fallen asleep. </p><p>Definitely fallen asleep really, with his reddened eyes shut softly, and his jaw hanging slightly open in order to breathe. He was even snoring faintly, the sound stuffy and soft in the near silence of the flat. </p><p>"Oh." Martin whispered, feeling an expected tug in his chest at the sight. </p><p>He looked so small, and not just painfully ill, although he certainly was, but vulnerably young. As if he was painfully in need of someone to bundle him up to protect him from the harshness of the world, in a way that he never seemed to at work with his overly professional, prickly personality, and sharp, exacting standards he held everyone, especially himself to. </p><p>As Martin watched, he coughed a bit in his sleep, crackly and wet, and it caused him to let out just the tiniest, pained whimper.</p><p>And if that didnt break Martin's heart into tiny pieces, he shivered faintly and curled further into the tight little ball that he'd twisted himself into on the cushions. It looked almost like a faint imitation of the way he perched in his desk chair, almost drawn in on himself and self soothing in the way he never allowed at work, and always resolutely corrected as soon as anyone, especially Martin walked in the door, as if he were guilty about seeking just the smallest form of comfort in a job that was so, so stressful. </p><p>Martin shook himself abruptly out of that thought, and from staring, with a sharp reprimand to himself. </p><p>He shouldn't be gawking while Jon was clearly freezing, and crunched up on the sofa without even one of the throw blankets scattered there. </p><p>Carefully, he crossed the floor, avoiding all of the squeaky bits of the wood, to the sofa and drew the thickest blanket he could around Jon's tiny shoulders, drawing it softly under where his messy curls met the nape of his neck, and gently tucking it against his far too thin frame.</p><p>He frowned at that, making a mental note to offer him breakfast the next morning, something more filling and with more substance than the flimsy biscuits he'd seen Jon snack on a few times. </p><p>Tucking down the final edges of the blanket, he stepped back with a slight sigh. </p><p>Jon still looked so, so fragile and so ill with the damp strands of hair falling into his shut eyes, and the concerning wheeze to his breathing. </p><p>Martin wrestled with the thought of leaving him to retire to his own room, and his own soft bed after the long day at work, and longer hours at the clinic with its fluorescent lights, and burning alcohol scent, and the sounds of other people's illness surrounding him. </p><p>But, Jon looked so desperately in need of someone to watch over him, so small, and almost breakable as if the wrong touch could shatter him, that even if it was just for a night, he couldn't bear the thought of leaving him alone on the sofa. </p><p>With another soft sigh, he sat back into the only other furniture his flat could claim as being in the living room, an old recliner that had belonged to his mother, and prepared to sit up, all night if he had to, if only to make sure that Jon remained peaceful and as comfortable as the raging fever would allow. </p><p>In the morning he'd go out and get the medication from the chemist, and then they could figure the rest of it out once Jon felt better, and once he'd had some of the breakfast Martin was going to insist on him having with the first doses of the medicine. </p><p>They could talk about all of it once he felt a bit better, and Martin had made him as comfortable as he possibly could be to start recovering.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This should be the end of this fic?? I didn't anticipate it becoming a chapetered work, but I'm enjoying this storyline a lot !!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is my first time writing Martin so I hope it turned out well and isn't too awkward !! </p><p>My Tumblr is @Kaiserkorresponds as well if you would like to follow there to see more of my writing !!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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